


Broken Light

by DemonDean10



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: 1966 U.S. tour, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bigger Than Jesus Controversy, Fear of dark, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, John in pain, Kidnapping, Memphis, Nightmares, Paul/John if u squint, Tears, but it will get better
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2019-03-14
Packaged: 2019-07-13 17:49:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16022903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DemonDean10/pseuds/DemonDean10
Summary: The controversial 1966 U.S. Tour, after the Memphis fiasco the boys are angry at John and get into a big fight resulting in John walking out. But he never makes it back.Basically John is kidnapped, the boys feel guilty, and the police are trying to find John before it's too late.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I think I did mess up a bit of the timeline, but it had to be done and it's no biggie. This is all fiction, don't take it seriously please. and leave kudos if you like!

Paul was sitting in one of the hotel’s somewhat comfortable couches, his back hunched, and his gaze focused on his hands. The band had just finished their Memphis concerts, and they were all pretty shaken up. Some psycho had decided to throw a cherry bomb at the stage in the middle of the performance. To them, it had sounded like a gunshot.

 

Ringo, Paul, and George had immediately looked towards John in fear, just to find the same expression reflected in his face as he looked towards them.

 

It was not an insane thought, that someone would want to shoot them. For the entirety of the tour the boys had been receiving death threats and hateful messages. The records were burnt, their name cursed, and though the boys put on a brave front for the press they were actually afraid. And today’s events had only made it worst. Everyone’s mood was down and tempers were high, especially George’s.

 

“You just had to open your mouth, didn’t you, Lennon?” He spat at the rhythm guitarist, who was laying in one of the larger couches with his right arm across his eyes and with his left leg folded over his right one in a ridiculous angle.

 

George was pacing, but he had stopped to glare angrily at his bandmate.

 

John groaned, “Oh, for Christ’s sake, George!” He spoke, “I thought we’d gotten over this.” He was right, the boys had talked with each other at the beginning on the tour and agreed that Americans were just crazy and overreacting. John had been very grateful for their support, though he never told them that.

 

“Well,” George answered him, “Clearly those people didn’t!” The ‘people’ being the hecklers at every concert and at every hotel. “What if it had been a gun?” He asked, “A real gun?”

 

John still didn’t move his arm, “It wasn’t.” He said, flatly.

 

“But if it had been?” George persisted, he stepped closer to the couch so he could look down at the older man.

 

“It wasn’t.” John repeated, a touch of irritation in his voice.

 

“But-”

 

“Oh, just shut it already, won’t you?” John finally removed his arm and stood up to face his bandmate. His voice was angry, and his fists were clenched.

 

But George didn’t care, “Oh, look who’s talking,” he continued. “Telling _me_ to shut up.”

 

Ringo spoke up from his own seat on the floor, “He’s right, John. I was frightened for me life!”

 

Paul rolled his eyes, “We all were, Ringo.” Thought truly, they had been frightened for John’s life more than theirs.

 

George turned to face the bassist, “Oh, don’t you try to defend him!” He snarled, his youthful face painted in a hideous expression.

 

Paul raised his hands in a placating gesture, “I’m not.” He said, not noticing the wounded look sent his way by John. “But, George, we’re all tired and we gain nothing by fighting one another.”

Ringo looked down in acceptance, but George wasn’t finished.

 

“We gain nothing from him!” He cried and pointed a cruel finger directly at John.

 

Everyone was silent, waiting for the penny to drop. Even George seemed shocked at his words, but made no move to apologize. A look of hurt briefly took over the man’s face, but was quickly replaced by a look of indifference. The mask was on.

 

“Well,” He finally spoke. “If that’s how you feel.” John walked towards where his coat laid and grabbed his beloved hat from its perch in one of the kitchenette chairs.

 

Paul moved towards him, “Now, Johnny-”

 

“Save it, Paul.” John said as he opened the door. Then, in a sad whisper, “He’s right anyway.”

 

“Where are you going?” Ringo asked him.

 

John sneered at him, “Out!” He told them, and banged the door closed.

 

* * *

 

John noticed the security posted near the elevators. Guess he’s have to take the stairs. He didn’t really fancy walking down 12 flights of stairs but he’s take anything over being in that room. Of course the band gained nothing from him. Shitty voice, shitty guitar playing, not even good at piano, and god knows Paul could write infinitely better than him. Those were insecurities he carried with him everyday, but to hear his friend admit it? George, who used to follow him around in Liverpool because he truly believed that motherless brat John Lennon was a role model, someone worthy of admiration. For that George to shove his insecurities right in his face, it hurt.  Probably more than a bullet wound would have.

 

He found the door labeled ‘Stairs’ and lit up a cigarette as he began his descent, grumbling all the way about ungrateful guitar players and stupid mobs.

 

He’d barely gone down two flights when he bumped into a man. John had been looking down and hadn’t heard anyone approaching. He wasn’t wearing his glasses but he could see that the man was dressed in a hotel uniform, and that he was big. About three inches taller than John and well equipped with what could be either muscle or fat.

 

John stepped to the side, “Sorry.” He murmured, only half paying attention, still concerned with what had happened earlier.

 

But the man stepped in front of him, blocking his path. “No no,” he said with a thick southern accent, the kind that was really starting to grate on John’s nerves. “It was my fault, anyway.” His eyes narrowed on John’s figured, “You’re one of them, aren’t you?”

 

John sighed, “No.”

 

But the man was persistent, “No, you are! That one from the newspaper the one that says your band is better than Jesus.” His tone had changed from casually friendly to hostile.

 

John was tense as he spoke, “That’s not what I said.” He started to move past the man, “Now if you’ll excuse me-”

 

The man grabbed his left arm in a tight grip, making John wince.

 

John glared at him, “Oi! Let go, you-” He struggled.

 

The man punched him in the face, making his head bang against the wall behind him. John’s vision blacked out for a moment and he was left disoriented. His hat fell to the floor.

 

The man started to drag him down the stairs, and John recovered his senses just in time to cry, “Hel-mhmm!”

 

The man put his large hand over his mouth and nose and started to squeeze. John struggled but his smaller and tired body was no match for his opponent. Soon he felt himself grow fainter and eventually he knew no more.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is all just fiction. Please leave kudos and a comment.

John came into consciousness with a painful headache. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to remember what had happened. Everything felt like it was moving. Was it a hangover? No, he hadn’t left the hotel. Or had he? Yes, he… John suddenly remembered. A man had hit him and then knocked him out at the hotel. Shit.

 

He snapped his eyes open, only to meet darkness. He was laying on his back, his hands tied in front of him. He was probably stuffed in the boot of a car. His coat was gone as well as his hat, fuck he loved that hat. The darkness soon began to suffocate him, it was a terrible weakness of John’s, he was afraid of the dark. Always had been. Since he was a child, and now he was 26 years old and the ridiculous fear still paralyzed him. His breathing became erratic, and he could feel his heartbeat quickening. He started counting from one to ten, like Paul had taught one night when John’s defenses had been down. It helped, but only somewhat. He was still stuck in the boot of a car, he’d been kidnapped, and he had no idea where the crazy man was taking him. 

 

He forced his body to move. He raised his tied hands and started to bang against the top with as much strength as he could muster. 

 

“Help!” He screamed, his cried becoming more erratic as time went on, “Let me out! Help!”

 

* * *

 

Paul was pacing the length of the room, his tense hands resting firmly at his hips. “John’s been gone hours.” He said. 

George had gone to his room long ago, probably to calm his mood and to prepare an apology for the morning. Ringo had stayed with Paul, only because he could see the bassist was extremely worried. But Ringo figured John was probably out on some American bar, chatting up some bird. He told Paul so.

 

“Still,” He’d be back by now, “It’s nearly three in the morning.” Certainly they had stayed up later than that, but not outside of the hotel especially during this tour with all the crazy protesters right outside.

 

Just as Ringo was going to continue his reassurance of his younger friend, Brian Epstein burst into the room with Neil Aspinall on tow. 

 

“Is John here?” He asked them, with a tightly controlled expression.

 

Paul’s brow furrowed in worry, “No.” He answered, “Why?” 

 

Before Brian could answer, Ringo spoke, “Is that his cap?” He pointed to the hat Neil was holding in his right arm.

 

Brian sighed, “Yes. They found it at the service stairs, and his coat was on the parking lot outside.”

 

As he was speaking, George came out of him room with a serious expression. “He could have just dropped them, left them there.” But he knew it was a silly notion, he just didn’t want to face the guilt of being the person that caused John to leave in the first place.

 

Paul answered for Brian with a preoccupied scoff, “John wouldn’t just drop his hat,” He said. “He loves that thing.”

 

There was a tense silence.

Brien eventually took a deep breath and said, “Well, none of you leave this room in case John comes back. Security is searching the area. I’m sure it’s all a prank on John’s part.”

 

“And if he doesn’t come back?” Ringo asked, looking at the manager with dark eyes. They didn’t suit his complexion, Ringo was the funny one. Always saw the upside of things, even when Paul couldn’t. He wasn’t joking right now.

 

Brian could only look at his remaining three boys and say, “We’ll find him.” He only hoped he wouldn’t fail them again. He couldn’t bare to lose John, or any of the boys. But John was special to Brian, he loved him, though not as much as he did when he first met the lad. But there was still some part of Brian’s heart that beat for John, and if John didn’t come back that part of Brian’s heart would stop too.

 

Paul was not reassured by his manager’s words, and it pained him. There was a time Brian could have said anything at all and the boys would have ate it up with no question. But since the Philippines disaster, there was a chuck on trust lost on the band’s part. However, Paul knew Brian cared deeply for John, more than he did for the rest of them. And though this usually bothered Paul, it was a good thing in the current situation. Whatever the hell that situation was.

* * *

 

The car had stopped. John’s arms and legs were tired from kicking at the top of the trunk for what felt like hours. He had stopped screaming long ago, because his lungs were getting tired and his throat was hoarse. 

 

Right now, John was waiting for the man to open the boot. He coiled his body, maybe if he kicked the man in the face hard enough he could make a run for it. 

 

As soon as he saw it open, John kicked his legs out. But the man seemed to have anticipated this and he was quick to hold them down using his large hand and forearm. He covered John’s mouth with his other hand. He painfully squeezed John’s left calf, causing a sharp yelp to escape his muffled mouth. The man then proceeded to hold down his leg’s with his own knee and used his now free hand to take out a gun from behind his trousers. John’s eyes widened and tried as he might, he could not control his quickening breaths. 

 

“Now, listen boy.” The man spoke, his voice rough. “You be quiet now, or I  _ will _ shoot you, alright?” Though his words were confident, his tone was somewhat nervous.

 

Not that John registered it. He just nodded rapidly in compliance with the order. Something he’s later beat himself up for.

 

The man dragged his out of his car and John could finally take in his surroundings. They were at a farmhouse of some sort, he couldn’t see any other buildings close to where he was but he could see smoke in the distance. Whether from a chimney or just a fire, he could not tell. 

 

The man dragged him to the side of the house where a cellar door was located, he kicked it open and dragged John inside. He seemed anxious, looking around like a madman and his clammy hands were hot on John’s clothed arms. John finally noticed the man’s mood and got nervous as well. If the man was on edge, who knows what he could do?

 

The man briefly untied John’s hands (With one hand only so he could keep the gun trained on the singer) only to tied them again to a rusty pipe. The he started to take his belt off.

 

At this John’s panic began to escalate and he tried to move away from the man, not that he could much what with him being right next to a wet brick wall.

 

The man had his belt off and said, “Open.”

 

John frowned at him, “What?”

 

The large man got closer to  him and put the gun under John’s chin. “Open your mouth, I said.”

 

John, in a long anticipated move of rebellion, firmly shut his mouth and started to shake his head but the man only forced the belt in and tightly tied it around the singer’s head, successfully gagging him.

 

Then he walked away from John and left the cellar, banging the doors shut behind him.

 

And John was left in darkness again. 


	3. Chapter 3

Daniel McGraham was a God-fearing, honest member of the community. He went to church every Sunday, he prayed everyday. He rejected any kind of modern-thinking, egalitarian nonsense kids preached, and when he’s read about one of them BeAtles talking about being better and bigger than Jesus himself, he’s been mighty mad. He’d never thought he’d bump into that same damn Beatle himself at the hotel where he did the plumbing. It was just too good an opportunity to pass, his instincts took over his body and just knocked the sinner boy out, took him to his house, and locked him in the cellar. 

 

It was just too good an opportunity to pass, he kept telling himself. But now he had no idea what the heck to do with the boy. So there he was standing in the living room of his friend Thomas’ house, explaining his situation to a person he was sure would understand.

 

“What in the blazes do you mean, you got a Beatle?” Thomas asked.

 

Daniel shrugged, “I don’t know! I just saw him at the hotel, that Lennon one. I figured…” He shrugged again and looked helplessly into his friend’s eyes.

 

“We could teach him a lesson?” Thomas finished for him. It wasn’t a bad idea. Those celebrity types, thinking they could just say whatever damn thing the want and not have to face the consequences. 

 

Daniel nodded, “Yeah.”

 

Thomas considered this, “He didn’t see your face, right?”

 

Daniel frowned, “What?” He asked, “Yeah, he did.”

Thomas groaned at him, “Oh, damn it Daniel! Now we can’t let him go. He’ll send the police right after you.”

 

Daniel sat down in one of the lumpy couches, “Damn.” He murmured, “So what do we do? I can’t exactly kill him.” He reasoned.

 

“Why not?” Thomas was quick to answer.

 

Daniel startled at the exclamation. “What??”

 

The other man shrugged, “You kidnapped him. Now you gotta get rid of the evidence. But first…”

 

Daniel leaned forwards, “Yeah?”

 

“We could make some money off of him, no?” Thomas smirked, “Plus, the kid still needs to learn his lesson.”

 

Daniel was intrigued, the moral implications of the plan disappearing from his mind. “Ramson?” 

 

Thomas smiled innocently, “I mean, you went through all this trouble.”

 

His friend smile back at him.

 

* * *

  
  


That same morning, the three remaining Beatles were sitting dejectedly around their hotel room, their faces long and pale.

 

Ringo broke the silence, “John’s still not back.”

George scoffed at him, “Yes, we can see that, Ringo.”

 

Ringo raised his eyebrows, “I’m just saying.” He said.

 

“Well, stop.” George’s tone was irate.

 

Paul groaned, he was too tired for this. “George.” He said.

 

George turned his annoyed eyes to the bassist, “What?” He spat.

 

Paul looked at him with as gentle expression as he could muster, “I know you feel guilty, Hell we all do-”

 

“Guilty!?” George stood up, “I don’t feel guilty, McCartney. He was the idiot! Running out like that, knowing the dangers.” His voice quivered. “He, He’s the one. I just…” A sob burst out of him, the first real emotion he’d let out since John had left. “I’m sorry.”

 

Ringo stood up to gather him in his arms. 

 

“I’m so sorry.” Even though he was the tallest of the boys, George did really look small at that moment.

 

Paul joined the hug as well, they all needed it. A few tears left his eyes, as he thought of where John could be or even if he still was.

 

Ringo was the only one seemingly holding it together and he held the younger lads in his arms and whispered, “It’s okay, he’ll be okay. We’ll okay.” He promised.

 

After a few moments the door opened and Mal Evans walked in, he looked at the boys now kneeling on the floor still in each other’s arms and smiled sympathetically. 

 

Paul looked up, “Did they find him?” He asked.

 

The hope in his voice broke Mal, and he sadly shook his head. “No, I’m sorry.” When he saw them looking even worse than they did before he continued, “But they  _ are _ looking, boys. Brian’s on the phone right now, trying to reschedule future concerts.”

 

Paul nodded, he’s hardly thought of the few concerts they still had to go. He’s thought of the future, of course. If his John didn’t come back. His partner. Paul didn’t think he’s be able to write again if he didn’t have John by his side.

 

“And the police?” Ringo asked, with his arm around George’s shoulders.

 

Mal seemed hesitant, “Well, they say they’ve got their best people on it but…” He looked down.

 

George’s tone was flat as he said, “They’re angry at him too, aren’t they? They hate us too?” Of course they did, they were still part of the damn bible belt.

 

Mal nodded, “It seems that way.”

 

“Can’t we hire someone?” Ringo asked, “A private detective?”

 

Paul put his head on his hands, “Probably expensive.”

 

George’s eyes were fiery again, “So?” He cried, “Don’t you want John back?”

 

Paul’s head snapped up and George flinched back at the look in the bassist’s eyes. They were pained and mad and hurt and irate. “Of course I do, George!” He looked at the guitarist with injured indignation, “But Brian…” The manager was always careful with the money they already had, seeing as the majority of the band’s deals were pretty bad financially.

 

Mal came to the rescue, “Brian will pay what he has to pay to get John back. Don’t you worry about that.”

 

Ringo spoke up again, “Has anyone called Cynthia? Or his aunt?”

 

Mal shook his head, “Brian doesn’t think it wise to worry them yet, we don’t even have enough information to give them.”

 

Paul narrowed his eyes, but kept quiet. He was tired, but he couldn’t go to sleep. Not without knowing where John was.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was going to be much longer but I really wanted to update today so I shortened it. Please comment and leave kudos if u like!

John was curled up in the darkness, he could feel it surround him and stifle him. His knees were drawn up to his chest and his head was resting against the brick wall. His jaw ached and, much to his disgust, he could feel drool accumulating in his chin.

 

Leaving John Lennon alone with his thoughts was never a good idea. He would start to wonder the most ridiculous things. He wondered, had his bandmates noticed he was gone? Or had they just figured he was out in some dingy American bar chatting up some bird? He had no idea what time it was, or how long he had been sitting there. It felt like hours, and the drive had been very long as well. And if had noticed he was missing, did they care? The rantional part of his brain told him that ‘Yes! Of course they do! They’re your best friends!’ but John wasn’t know for listening to that part of his brain much. George had been attacking him, Ringo was on his side, and Paul had abandoned him. Hell, maybe they were even relieved he was gone. He wouldn’t be hard to replace, he was sure. And thought about Brian, he’d always been a arse to Brian. The manager would probably be relieved too, no matter his feelings for him.

 

He thought about Cynthia. Would she miss him? Their marriage was more often on the rocks than off. And Julian. His son. John never knew how to be with kids, and so his relationship with the kid was strained, weak. John only hoped it wasn’t hopeless, like the one he had with his own father. Would Julian remember him? If John never made it out? If so, would he miss him? Who would miss John Lennon? John supposed he wouldn’t miss himself, not really.

 

His eyes started to water against his will, tears had never been for him. He hated the shame they painted his face with. He blinked rapidly in an effort to hold them back but it was fruitless. He felt his cheeks grow wet and the leather of the belt around his mouth dampen.

 

Just as he continued to wallow in self-pity, the doors burst open. His eyes squinted at the sudden light. He saw his captor walk in followed by a slightly shorter man, but no less big. The new man walked towards him. John wished he could wipe his tears, but alas it was impossible in his condition.

 

Thomas looked down at the boy, “So this is the famous Beatle? How pathetic.” He scoffed, causing John’s squint to become an actual glare, though its effect was probably lessened by the state of him.

 

Thomas looked back at Daniel, “You bring the camera?” He asked.

 

John’s eyes widened, camera? Did they plan to release pictures of him to the press? John could hardly imagine anything more humiliating.

 

“Yeah.” Daniel nodded and held it up. It was a beat up thing, but it would work alright.

 

John gave a loud muffled noise in protest.

 

Thomas glared at him, “Oh shut up!” He kicked John in the side, making the rhythm guitarist wince and glare harder. Thomas just looked around the cellar, “Damn.” He said, “The light in here is shit.” He turned to his friend, “You got a lamp or something?”

 

Daniel nodded, “Yeah, a flashlight. I’ll go get it.”

 

“Leave the gun.” Thomas told him.

 

Daniel did as he was told and the two were left alone. Thomas pointed the firearm at John, causing the singer to tense.

 

“Now,” Said the American, “I’m gonna take the gag out but you’re gonna have to be real quiet, get it?” The man did not sound nervous like Daniel had hours ago, and his hands were steady around the gun.

 

John, anxious to have his mouth free, nodded submissively.

 

Thomas took the belt out, the leather causing friction against John’s skin and making him hiss. He stretched his jaw and swallowed properly a couple times.

 

Thomas observed him, “So,” he started. “You think yourself above Jesus, huh?”

 

John’s voice was hoarse as he spoke, “No! I never said-”

 

“We all know what you said, boy.” Thomas’ tone was cold. “Rich people like you, thinking you’re better than anyone and everyone else. You don’t control your damn mouth, someone will shut it for you.”

 

John shivered at the look in the man’s eyes. They were heartless and cruel. He wondered if that’s what people saw in his own eyes when he belittled them and mocked them.

 

“So now,” Thomas continued in a casual tone, “You gon’ burn for your sins.”

 

John froze. He struggled to speak, “You, you’re going to ki-ill me?”

 

Thomas shrugged, “Yeah.” He simply said.

 

John’s breathing got heavy. He could see the man meant it. He couldn’t even bother to count numbers to calm himself down as he desperately said, “I, I have money! I’ll pay you. My manager, he-”

 

Thomas interrupted him again, “Yeah we know. That’s the plan.” He then shook his head, “But you’ve seen our faces now. It’s really Daniel’s fault, but oh well.” He made a face as if to say ‘What can you do?’

 

“I won’t tell!” John cried, his breathing erratic. “I’ll keep my mouth shut!”

 

As he spoke, Daniel came back in with a silver flashlight.

 

Thomas looked down at the boy, he’s moved his legs so he was kneeling on his knees. Oh, the feeling of someone begging for mercy was something he could get used to. “No.” He said, “You won’t.”

 

John gave an anguished whimper, “Yes.” He insisted. “I-please! I have a son, he’s just three years old, ple-”

 

Thomas and Daniel were annoyed, “Okay, shut up now.” Daniel demanded and got the belt ready. If there was one thing he hated was seeing men degrade themselves like some weeping woman.

 

John wailed, “Plea-”

 

The belt was shoved into his mouth again. He held back his sobs and glared with as much poison as he could muster.

 

Thomas just scoffed at him and told Daniel to take the picture while he held the torch and pointed it directly at the singer. After the photograph was taken, the two men left again. Not without spitting at the singer once each.

John was left again in darkness. He curled up again. He was going to die. They were going to kill him. Fuck, there was still so much he could do, so much he had to fix! He rested his forehead on his knees as best as he could and let out a painful sob. His body shaked. He was hopeless.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment and leave Kudos if u like!

Paul hadn’t showered or slept for a day and a half. Ringo had at least showered but sat loyally next to Paul, watching out for his friend. George had been exhausted his admission of guilt and his later breakdown, so he was taking a kip at the moment.

 

Brian entered the room. He was followed by a man in a police uniform.

 

“Boys,” He started, “this is Officer Dalton. He’s been doing most of the work on John’s case.”

 

Officer Dalton nodded at them, “How do you do?”

 

Paul’s mask was off at the moment and when he raised his head from his arms he did so in order to glare and ask, “How do you think?”

 

Brian sighed, “Now, Paul-”

 

Officer Dalton raised a hand, “It’s alright, I understand.” And he did. Arnold Dalton didn’t hate the Beatles, his daughter loved their music and he himself thought they were pretty nice lads. A bit mouthy perhaps, but he supposed that was part of their charm. He felt bad for that Lennon one, first attacked by most of the Southern American population and now kidnapped. He understood why his friends would be upset.

Ringo mustered some hope, “Have you found something? Anything?”

 

Officer Dalton nodded, “I’ve spoken with the hotel staff and there is one man who hasn’t shown up since the day before yesterday.”

 

Paul looked up again, “When John was taken.”

 

Dalton nodded, “Exactly.” He said. “His name is Daniel McGraham, we’re looking into him and he seems to have a history. I’ve asked for a warrant to search his property.”

 

Ringo smiled, a shadow of his usual smile but still,. “Thank you, sir.”

 

Officer Dalton smiled at him kindly, “Of course. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

 

Brian nodded, “Yes, of course. I’ll walk you out.”

 

Officer Dalton stopped him with a smile, he could see the manager was tired and worried and probably had a thousand other things to do. “No need, Mr. Epstein.”

 

Brian felt relieved, “Alright then.” He said, “Goodbye, thank you. Do keep me updated.”

 

Dalton opened the door and nodded again, “Certainly.” He nodded at the singers, “Gentlemen.”

 

They nodded at him, Ringo smiling and Paul looking grateful and apologetic. 

 

Officer Dalton left, quietly promising that he would do anything he could to get those boys’ friend back to safety.

 

* * *

 

Daniel and Thomas were having a drink, laughing about their pathetic victim tied up in the cellar. Daniel was in the middle of an insult when there was a strong knock on the door.

 

“Daniel McGraham?” Came a voice, “It’s the police, sir. Open up.”

 

Thomas’ eyes widened, “Shit!” He exclaimed and rounded on his friend, “Did someone see you?”

 

Daniel shook his head, “I, I don’t think so, no.” There was another knock, more impatient. “Coming!” He shouted then looked at Thomas, “Go out the back door, in case we need to move him.”

 

Thomas gave him a calculated look but left. He headed to the cellar, no way he was risking some cop finding his captive.

 

Meanwhile Daniel opened his door, “Yes?” He asked, pretending to be confused. “What do you want?”

 

Officer Dalton looked at the man in front of him, McGraham was big and had a mean look about him. His record spoke of assault, teenage robberies, and a couple of drunk driving incidents. Pretty normal for a place like Memphis, but enough to make the policeman weary. “This here is a warrant.” He raised the paper. “From a judge. I need to search your property.”

 

Daniel gasped, “What on Earth for?”

 

Dalton sighed, “We’re investigating a high profile disappearance. Why have you not been to work the past couple days?”

 

Daniel fake coughed, “I’ve been sick.” It was a flimsy lie but it was all he had.

 

Dalton’s bad feeling about the man grew with every second. “Sir, let me pass.” He said.

 

Daniel moved reluctantly and allowed the cop to enter his house. Officer Dalton searched every room in the one floor house and found nothing suspicious, until he got to the kitchen.

 

“Mr. McGraham, was there someone here with you?” He pointed at the two glasses, both half-full, sitting on the kitchen table.

 

Daniel shook his head rapidly, “No, well I mean, yes.” He stuttered. “My gardener, he came in for a drink a couple hours ago. I didn’t have the energy to clean up...being sick and all.” He nodded, satisfied with himself.

 

Dalton looked at him, then shook his head and sighed. “Alright.” He moved towards the front of the house.

 

Daniel smiled, “You’re leaving then, Officer?”

 

Dalton looked back at him, “No.” He noticed the disappointed look the other man gave him, “I still need to check your basement.”

 

Daniel’s breathing quickened but he smiled anyway, “Oh? Basement?” He tried to play the fool.

 

The policeman didn’t bother answering him. Just walked out the front door and headed to the side of the house where he had seen a cellar door.

 

Daniel was quick to follow him, “I barely go down there, really.” He assured the officer, “I’m not even sure if it’s unlocked, and I don’t have any key-”

 

“It’s unlocked.” Dalton told him as he shoved the doors open. He stepped in, weary.

 

Daniel sighed in relief. The cellar was empty, no tied up Beatle in sight. “Well, Officer…” He waved his arms, showcasing the empty area. “You seen enough?”

 

Dalton sighed, observing the wet brick walls and the rusty pipes. “Damn.” He muttered under his breath, he’s been a fool for thinking it would be so easy. To McGraham he said tersely, “Yes. I’ve seen enough.” He turned to face the other man. “Sorry for the inconvenience, Mr. McGraham. I’ll get out of your hair, excuse me.”

 

Daniel smiled as the man walked out, then looked around with a frown. Where was the singer?

 

* * *

 

 

Thomas laughed as he saw the cop walk off the property, while his hostage looked on with a forlorn expression. They were hiding behind some small trees at the back of the house. Thomas held a gun to John’s back and had a firm grip on the singer’s neck. John longed to cry out, even gagged as he was, but the feeling of the barrel digging into his back held him back. He closed his eyes and he saw the patrol car drive away, his head bowed.

 

Thomas ‘aww’ed, “Were you hoping the nice man was going to take you away?” He scoffed and lifted the boy up by the neck. He turned John to face him and shoved his head up with the gun, he smiled at the sad on look he wore on his face. “No one’s taking you away, kid.” Thomas smiled.

 

John glared and tried to squish the feelings of fear and helplessness that were overtaking his chest.

 

Daniel came out the back door, “Hey!”

 

Thomas turned to look at Daniel, “Hey.”

 

The other man walked closer to them, he briefly looked at John and flinched at the look in the younger man’s eyes. John felt a rush of satisfaction, even gagged and covered in dry tears and dirt he could still make a man cower with just one look.

 

Daniel shook his head, looking away. “Man, that was a close one.”

 

Thomas’ eyes narrowed, “Too close. It’s too dangerous to have him here.” He nodded to himself, “I’ll take him, that cop’s got nothing tying me to him.”

 

John made a noise of protest, which resulted in Thomas hitting his head with the barrel of the gun. John winced and closed his eyes in pain.

 

Daniel sighed and nodded, looking at the ground with grateful eyes. “Alright.”

 

Thomas dragged John over to his truck, parked behind the house, and threw his against the door. He removed the belt gagging the singer and instead tied it around John’s eyes, blinding him. John gave a weak scoff, as if he could see anything worth a damn with his terrible eyesight.

 

Thomas nodded at Daniel and shoved the Beatle into the backseat of his truck. He got into the driver’s seat and started the engine, Daniel waved him goodbye as he got away. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter but things happen. I really wanted to update. Please leave a comment and kudos if u like, It keeps me going.

“Sing me something then.” 

 

John raised his head from where he had it resting against a window. He tilted his head. “What?” He asked with a hoarse voice.

 

Thomas gave him a brief look through the rear view mirror, “You sing, don’t you? Sing me a song.” He shrugged, “You know Bill Monroe?”

 

John frowned behind the blindfold, he knew the name, naturally. But damn him if he remembered the name of any song, much less the words. He had always had problems remembering song lyrics, even his own. “I, no.” He hoped the man wouldn’t explode on him for saying so.

 

But Thomas just scoffed and shook his head (not that John could see). “Sing one of yours then.” He said, surprising John. “A slow one, mind you. Not some loud electronic nonsense.”

 

John hesitated for a moment, trying to think of a song. He could sing one of Paul’s lovey dovey songs, but he hardly had the voice for that and he had trouble remembering all of the words. He finally settled for If I Fell, that one was safe enough.

 

“ _ If I fell in love with you, _

_ Would you promise to be true…” _

 

His captor was silent during John’s performance. John could hear his voice break in more than a few words, he sounded frail. 

 

He ended the song with an out of tune note, missing Paul’s voice in his ear. He waited for a response.

 

Thomas finally hummed. “Nice tune, I suppose.” He smirked at the singer even if he could not see it and continued, “But you’re not much of a vocalist, are you?”

 

John bowed down and flushed in embarrassment and anger. As an internationally recognized artist, he should not have let the comments of some Southern psycho get to him, but of course he did. It didn’t register with John that of course his voice would sound like shit after all the misuse and abuse of the past few hours(Days?), he just took it as a comment on his voice in general.

 

Thomas smiled at the road, ‘Good’ he thought. ‘Let that rich heretic get taken off his perch.’ “Well,” He said out loud, “Sing me another.” Might as well get something some sort of entertainment.

 

John was quiet for a moment but then started singing again.

 

“ _ There are places I’ll remember, _

_ All my life, though some have changed…” _

 

He sang a few more songs as the ride went on, his voice getting stronger as time passed. Thomas stayed quiet throughout his performance. He was about to start Girl when he felt the car stop.

 

Thomas slammed his door closed and walked to the other side of the truck, he paused before opening the backseat door and looked around. It was nighttime and none of his neighbors were outside. Good.

 

Thomas opened the door, grabbed Lennon’s right calf, and dragged him out into the hard pavement. 

 

“Aargh!” John wailed as his head hit the ground, he tried to lift it off as he was dragged around towards the house but he could still feel his scalp heating up and paining him.

 

Once Thomas had gotten his front door open he grabbed the singer and made him stand up.

 

“Where are we?” John asked him.

 

Thomas shushed him and forced him up his stairs.

 

After a few moments John felt the blindfold being taken off, he blinked a few times as he adjusted to the light. Then he blinked again, he was in a bathroom. John frowned and turned to look at his captor, “Why am I here?”

 

The taller man chuckled, “‘Cause you stick, boy. Clean yourself up.” After that he left John alone.

 

John hesitated for a moment then allowed himself to sigh in relief, he’d been dying for a piss.

 

After relieving himself he turned on the shower head and waited for the water to heat. As he waited he looked at himself in the mirror. He blanched. His skin was pale, clammy, and covered in sweat, dried tears, and dirt. His hair had dirt in it too and it was sticking in all directions. His cheeks were sunken and his eyes red. He looked bloody awful. 

 

Carefully, mindful of his aching  _ everything  _ he took off his clothes. Then he stared at the rest of his body. He’s been losing weight over the last couple months, tired of being the fat beatle, but from the last time he’s taken a shower he could see that his body already looked manglier. There were bruised all over him, on his arms, his legs, his chest. John bet there were probably more on his back. 

 

He sighed and walked towards the shower and felt the water. He flinched, it was still ice cold. He sighed again but shook his head and got in anyway. Who knows how much time his captor would give him.

 

After not too long his body got used to the cold water, his muscles relaxed and he exhaled in contentment. He grabbed the soap and rubber it all over himself, then he used up a generous amount of shampoo and washed his hair. If he was going to be a kidnapping victim, he might as well take his revenge in the little ways.

 

But soon his thoughts turned to sourer topics. He thought about his son, Julian, and about Cynthia. Had somebody told them he was missing? (If the band even knew) Would his wife be worried? Or relieved? Relieved to know that now she didn’t have another little child to watch over, except bigger and drunker. John was a bad husband, he was barely there, he drank too much, took too many drugs, got angry over anything and everything, and Cynthia? She wasn’t perfect. But damn it she was close to it. And Julian was wonderful, incredibly smart and talented for his age. But did John ever tell him? No. John didn’t know how to bond with kids, not even his own. Now, Paul? Paul would be a wonderful father, once he stopped womanizing and settled down(Not that that ever stopped John). 

 

Julian was enchanted by Paul. Paul played with him, and told him silly stories, and knew how to make him stop crying. John struggled making a bottle. And he took out his frustration on Cyn, and Paul, and Julian. So he went out instead of staying in and helping. Now he wished more than anything that he had stayed in more, if only so he could picture his son laughing at one of John’s funny faces. John closed his eyes, if he made it out of this nightmare by some miracle, he would go straight home, kiss his wife, and hold his child. He would be better, he had to be.

 

After a while, John turned off the shower head and opened the curtain. He immediately noticed that his Beatle clothes were gone, and in their place there were some half-folded clothes. Had his captor(John really needed to put a name to that face) come in? While John was vulnerable and naked? How had he not noticed someone walk in? John shuddered as he thought of what that man could have done and seen. 

 

Desperate to cover himself, John put on the underwear and clothes laid out for him. They were a tad big on him and the self-loathing part of John was content for an instant. He wore a wool red sweater with holes in the sleeves and bottom, and some washed-out dungarees. There were no socks or shoes laid out for him. 

 

Afterwards he tried the door but, unsurprisingly, the door was locked. John groaned and closed his eyes. What game was his captor playing? Letting him shower and giving him new(ish) clothes after all the shit he’d made him go through. The man had said that he was going to kill John. Did he want him clean first? It made no sense. 

 

Suddenly overcome by exhaustion, John sat down on the cold tile and drew his jean-covered knees to his chest. He rested his head on the locked door closed his eyes. In no time sleep took him over.

 

* * *

 

John was abruptly woken by the door slamming to the side of his head. He hissed and rubbed the tender spot. His captor stood before him, looking down at the singer with cruel amusement. John shuddered at the gaze and hurried to stand up.

 

Thomas had the gun clearly visible on his pocket, “Come with me.” He said.

 

John swallowed but braved, “Are you going to kill me?” His voice sounded steadier than he felt.

 

Thomas gave him a look, “Come. With. Me.” He repeated and grabbed John’s right arm. 

 

“Look, you don’t have to do this. I can-mmhm!”

 

Thomas put his hand over the singer’s mouth and forcefully shook John’s head. “Be quiet! Or you get no food.”

 

John frowned but as they walked down the stairs(His mouth still firmly covered) a smell reached his nostrils. Having not eaten for days, he couldn’t hold a quiet moan. His mouth watered and his stomach groaned in hunger. But then his relief turned to confusion as the pair entered the kitchen. 

 

There was an old woman sitting at the head of a small but orderly table. She looked over 200 years old. Her head turned to their direction and John’s eyes widened as he took in her own unseeing ones. 

 

“Tommy? Darling, is that you?” She spoke in a kind, grainy voice.

“Yeah, ma.” John’s captor answered. He took his hand away from its position blocking the guitarist’s mouth. “I have a friend with me.” He shoved John down into a chair to the left of his mother and took the gun out from his pocket. He set it down next to his plate, the barrel facing John, as he sat to the right of his mother.

 

“Oh?” The old lady questioned. “A friend from work?”

 

“Something like that.” Thomas answered. “Charles is a musician, he’s from the U.K. Isn’t that right?” He directed his question at a baffled John.

 

After a moment of silence and a cold warning look from his captor John nodded and cleared his throat, “Yes.” He poshened his accent, less she recognize his voice(Though he doubted it). “London.” Thomas nodded in approval.

 

“Oh, well that’s lovely.” The old lady smiled in the general direction of John’s voice and the singer nearly broke at the first sign of  kindness he’s seen in days. “Now,” She spoke, “Let’s pray and eat this delicious meal.”

 

They prayed, thankfully not holding hands, and John kept his mouth shut. He had no idea what the hell he was supposed to say, Mimi had never been one for praying before food. After the oration, they ate. John ravished his plate, there were beans, and rice and, a plump slice of bread, and a thin but juicy slice of what could have been any kind of meat. John was able to forget for a brief moment that the man across from him didn’t have a gun pointed at him and that he was at home with his wife and child, enjoying a delicious dinner. 

 

After a while, the old lady spoke again. “So, Charles. Are you in the States long?” Her tone was casual, friendly.

 

John looked over at Thomas, only to find him giving him a cold glare in return. John quickly looked away and looked at his food as he spoke. “I, um...no. I hope I can leave soon.” His tone was downcast.

 

Thomas took a bit of his meat, “Charles came here for inspiration, for his music.”

 

The old lady nodded, “Oh music! Violin? Cello?”

 

John briefly considered saying ‘guitar’ but he figured that was too ‘Rock n Roll’ for a woman who had probably never left Memphis her entire life. “Piano.” He finally settled for.

 

“Oh, lovely.” The lady said. “Thomas, you have an old piano here, don’t you? Charles, you should play for us.”

 

And ‘Charles’ did, after they were done with their food. The thing was out of tune, even John could hear it. And his hands were shaking because Thomas was right behind him, his body heat engulfing John’s back, with the gun held loosely in his hand. 

 

Afterwards, the old lady(probably with bad hearing as well) clapped and praised John. 

 

“Well, he’s gotta go now, ma.” Thomas interrupted.

 

“Oh, is that so?” The old lady frowned, “What a shame.”

 

At Thomas’ look John spoke, “Goodbye, Amelia.” (She had told him to call her that while they ate.) His voice was forlorn, he knew that once she was gone so would the nice-ish Thomas. 

 

“Goodbye, Charles.” The old lady walked in his general direction and opened her arms. John was quick to walk into them, she was much smaller than him but he felt safe from danger. That is until Thomas ripped him away and walked him up the stairs, the gun pointed at his back in order to keep him quiet. 

 

John mourned for that old woman, what a pity that such a kind soul had given birth to such awful a man. 

 

Thomas tossed him into the restroom again. “Be quiet now, boy.”

 

John looked at him, “What are you going to do to me?”

 

“Didn’t I already tell you?” Thomas sighed, “You’re going to burn, Lennon. But first, you need to learn your lesson.” With that, he left the restroom.

 

John heard the clicking of the lock after the man departed and he sighed in despair.

 

Resigned, he went to the loo again and then curled up in the cold tile floor again. He grabbed a towel from one of the cabinets and threw it on top of himself. He had no idea what the future held in store for him, but for now he slept. Who knew when he’d have the opportunity again.


	7. Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> angsty chapter i started months ago and finished yesterday. I hope to update Voices of Freedom tomorrow and then The Fool By The Seaside.

The remaining Beatles had gotten the picture. At first Brian had tried to keep it from them, but George had stolen it from Mal’s frozen hands. 

 

“Oh my god…” Paul murmured with shocked eyes.

 

George’s eyes were sorrowful and he just shook his head.

 

Ringo took a deep breath, “They’re asking for money?”

 

Brian sighed as he read the letter that came along with the picture, “Yes.”

 

Paul swallowed a sob, “How much?”

 

Their manager shook his head, “A lot. But I’ll make it happen.”

 

“When can you get it?” Was the bassist’s next question.

 

“It will take time, the money’s in England.” Brian answered, “Over a week, I imagine. I would need to talk to the bank, explain the situation, make sure there are no leaks.” He swallowed, “Talk to Cynthia and other authorities.”

 

George turned to look at him, “A week!?”

 

The drummer let out a sigh, “George-”

 

“No!” Exploded the younger man, “Look at him! They have him mussled like a fuckin’ dog!” He grabbed the picture out of Paul’s hands and stuck it in Brian’s face, “He’s crying for God’s sakes. We need to find him, now!”

 

Mal nodded, “The police are working on it right now-”

 

“Not fast enough.” George retorted.

 

“That’s enough, George!” Said Brian, “Calm down.”

 

Paul stayed quiet, the truth was he agreed with George but was too upset to say anything at the moment. 

 

“Now,” Brian continued, “I’ll get this to Officer Dalton, he should be able to get something from it.”

 

George walked away, hopeless and guilt-ridden. 

 

* * *

 

John was roughly woken up by a shove. He had been sleeping relatively well considering his awful circumstances. 

 

“Wake up, boy!” Thomas barked at him. 

 

John blearily looked up, “Where are we going?”

 

The older man looked at him, “Nowhere.”

 

John choked. Was this it? Was the madman going to kill him now? He’d been so out of it he hadn’t noticed his hands being grabbed and tied together with a rough rope. The man went for his legs but the singer was prepared. He kicked his legs and swung out with a razor he had stolen from the cabinet in the middle of the night and hidden under his sleeve. 

 

Thomas hissed in pain as his cheek was cut. 

 

John stood up and tried to kick him, but the bigger man took ahold of his ankle and made him stumble into the ground. John tried to crawl way and kept on kicking out, waving the razor around with his tied hands.  

 

Thomas reached blindly for the razor, his palm getting cut in the process, but he finally was able to to make his captive drop it. He took ahold of both kicking legs and reached for his rope. “Fucking nuisance.” He muttered at tied them tightly, making sure that it would hurt. 

 

John was still wiggling around trying to get lose as the man grabbed his hair and started to drag him out of the bathroom. He cried out as the hold got stronger, his scalp burning. 

 

Thomas dragged him down the stairs by the hair with the bloody razor in the other hand. He took the Beatle into the kitchen and threw him into the floor; he headed for the kitchen table and grabbed a rag which he was quick to stuff into the other’s mouth and tied it round the back of the head, there were neighbors nearby and the kitchen had thin walls to the outside. Then he grabbed a bucket of soapy water from the hallway with some more rags and put them in front of the boy, “You’re going to clean this floor, you hear me?” If he was going to keep the bastard alive for more time, then he might as well be useful. 

 

John glared up at him, his scalp hurting him still. In a reckless moment, he moved his tied hand forwards and tipped over the bucket, making all the water and soap fall out into the kitchen floor and some spreading to the wooden floor of the hallway. 

 

Thomas growled and kicked him down into the wet floor, putting a firm foot on his back. “You think you’re so smart, don’t you? I should kill you right now.”

 

John felt the other man kneel on his legs, trapping him under him. A cold hand undid the top part of the dungarees and then dragged the jumper up, exposing John’s back. He whimpered in fear, why would he do something so stupid!? 

 

His captive had the razor in hand and he dragged it along John’s back, not breaking the skin yet. “I could kill you, boy. Puncture your lungs and watch you bleed out.”

 

John shook his head desperately. 

 

“But,” Thomas continued in a dark tone, “I think I’ll just teach you a lesson. You still need to clean the floor after all.” Then, without warning, the knife started to dig into the singer’s back, it’s bluntness making it much more painful.

 

John screamed behind the rag. The feeling of Thomas’ carving into his back was agony, worse than any he’d had yet. He tried to kick his legs up but they were firmly trapped under Thomas, his arms as well under his own weight. John could do nothing for scream for what felt like hours. 

 

In reality, it was less than a minute, but enough for Thomas to get a good carving in. He looked at the word and laughed, feeling no remorse. A knock on his door distracted him from the bloody sight, and a slight fear took over. There was separation between the houses, but what if one of his neighbors had heard the boy’s muffled screams?

 

He stood up and went to the door, leaving John hidden from view in the kitchen with tears of pain falling off his eyes like currents. 

 

To his relief, it was only Daniel, but he was looking panicked. “Thomas!” He said as he walked in, “I saw that officer again, I was coming home from the store and I saw him knock the door open with two other cops!”

 

Thomas swore and walked back to the kitchen, “How could this happen?” Unbeknown to them, Officer Dalton had recognized the dirty pipes in the photograph of John as being the same as those in Daniel’s basement. Giving the fact that there was a celebrity life at stake, it hadn’t taken more than that to get a warrant of arrest. 

 

Daniel followed him, “I don’t know, I-” But he stopped when he saw the bleeding singer sobbing on the floor, a word carved on his back. “Fuck, Thomas...what did you do?”

 

His friend shrugged, “Didn’t you want to teach him a lesson?” He smirked. 

 

Daniel was gaping, “But this, this is torture, Thomas! It’s not right-”

 

“ _ You _ said you wanted to teach him a lesson,  _ you _ gave him to  _ me _ .” Thomas said, “Now, you gotta leave town or they’ll find you. I can’t have you here, it’s too much risk.”

 

Daniel gaped, “But where will I go?” In the background he could still hear Lennon’s whimpers and quiet sobs.

 

“Am I supposed to do everything for you?” Thomas sounded exasperated, “Figure it out, Daniel. It’s your own fault for getting caught.” Suddenly he turned and kicked at the singer, getting a wail in return. “Shut up!”

 

John curled up in the wet floor, biting down on the gag to stop more pained sounds from escaping. 

 

Daniel looked away and nodded with a sigh. “Alright then, I have a cousin up north that can help me.”

 

“Good.” Thomas told him and walked him out, “Tell no one where you’re going.”

 

“Yeah, yeah...Goodbye, Thomas. Good luck.” Daniel walked out, trying to erase the pitiful image of the bleeding boy off his mind. 

 

Thomas closed and locked the door behind him. He headed back into the kitchen and gathered some rags and towels; he walked to where the singer laid curled up. “Now you,” He raised the boy’s head up with his shoe and threw the rags and towels at him, “Clean this mess up!”

 

And with no other choice, John got to work. 

* * *

 

It had been four days since the boys had received the photograph. Another four days without John. They were still staying at that same hotel in Memphis, refusing to leave until they got their friend back. The tour had been delayed, Brian claiming that John was very ill and needed rest. 

 

Cynthia had been called, with Brian delivering the news and then trying to comfort her as she cried. Paul had gotten on the phone then and talked to her for a while until Julian got ahold of the phone. Paul had told him that his father was sick at the moment, but floundered for an answer when the boy had asked if he could talk to him. The singer had told him that his dad was sleeping and could not be disturbed. The Cyn had grabbed the phone again, still sounding devastated. ‘How are you?’ She’d asked Paul. He had been unable to answer her. 

 

Mimi had been slightly better in a way, and worse in others. Brian had been on his own for that one, with the woman screaming at him for his carelessness. She was also upset at John, and it wasn’t until they were hanging up and her voice cracked that the manager heard any worry from her. 

 

The good news that Officer Dalton had brought to them yesterday was that he’d arrested the kidnapper, Daniel McGraham, trying to leave town. The judge was charging him, but the man hadn’t revealed anything about John’s location. For all they knew, he’d killed him already. Dalton had told the boys this was highly unlikely, but things were looking much to bleak for them to really believe him. 

 

Now Paul was sitting with a guitar on his lap, George sleeping on the couch beside him. He had tried to play something but nothing appeared in his mind. All he could think about was John and what horrors he was going through at the moment. If he was still alive.

 

* * *

 

John was in a closet, tied up by the hands, knees, and ankles. And gagged with one of Thomas’ belts, again. Ever since the razor incident he hadn’t been allowed back into the bathroom. He went into the restroom when he needed to do his business, but that was it. He hadn’t showered in days. The closet was small and the lightbulb was broken, leaving him buried in unforgiveness darkness. Thomas had made him clean all the floors in the house, always on his knees and with no gloves. His palms were covered in calluses. His captor didn’t untie his legs for anything, forcing him to crawl like a dog. When they ate one of John’s hands was tied to the chair, making him unable to properly cut and eat food and making Thomas laugh at him cruelly. If John dared to talk back or insult the man when he wasn’t gagged, he wouldn’t get fed. 

 

Yesterday night, John had been cleaning the wooden floors of the living room and noticed that Thomas had left a window open. Hurriedly looking around to make sure the man wasn’t there, he’d started to crawl out of it. But the man had appeared suddenly and taken him by the neck. Then he’d kicked John down and repeated his actions from the kitchen, carving something else onto John’s back. His back throbbed all the time and John didn’t even want to find out how ugly it probably looked. He’d be lucky if he did not get an infection. 

 

John was awoken from his thoughts by the sound of a door slamming shut; heavy footsteps getting closer. He flinched in anticipation and clenched his fists tightly. 

 

The closet door banged open, hitting John’s side. Thomas appeared, looking disgruntled and filthy. The smell of alcohol hit John’s nose and he frowned up at the man. 

 

His captor sneered. Daniel had been arrested and it wouldn’t be long before the idiot cracked and spilled the beans. He had to get rid of the boy. He moved and grabbed a fistful of the Lennon’s hair, then twisted it a bit to make the boy whimper. 

 

John was dragged out of the restroom and then up the stairs, his tied legs making him unable to even walk. The steps were adding bruises to his already battered body. 

 

Thomas took him to the bathroom and then let him go, letting his head bang against the cold tile. He headed to the tub and started to draw him a bath. “You stink, boy.” He didn’t really, being surrounded by soap throughout the last few days. He had to hand it to him, the floors had been properly cleaned. Then again, Thomas did beat him when he didn’t clean them well.

 

He took the gag out and untied John’s hands. He waited until the tub was full before he untied the legs. “Strip.” He ordered.

 

John frowned up at him. 

 

The other man scoffed, “I’m not gonna do anything, boy. But you think I trust you here alone? Fat chance!” He glared and raised a fist, “Now strip!”

 

John stood up gingerly, wincing and stumbling on his weak legs. He tried to create more distance between himself and Thomas, but the bathroom wasn’t very big. Slowly, he started to take off his (Thomas’) clothes, gasping every time he hit a bruise.

 

He headed towards the tub, trying his hardest to ignore the man looking at his completely bare body. He went into the tub and sat there for a moment, biting his lip to stop a cry at the burn in the carvings on his back. 

 

“Don’t just sit there!” Thomas barked. 

 

Instantly, John reached for the soap and sponge, washing himself with as much speed as he could muster. He noticed that Thomas was still there and hadn’t gone to get clothes like last time. If his concern was smell, then surely he wouldn’t want John in those dusty and sweaty clothes? Speaking of clothes, “What did you do with my suit?” The suit he’d been wearing when he was kidnapped. 

 

“Threw it away.” Thomas said, “Now stop with the questions.”

 

“It’s the first-”

 

“Shut up!”

 

John dunked under the water, wishing to escape the other’s gaze. He came back up again and flinched away when he opened his eyes. Thomas had seated himself on the edge of the tub, directly next to John. Instinctively, he covered his chest with his hands and curled his legs. 

 

Thomas laughed, “Hell, could you be more of a woman?”

 

John didn’t move his hands. He was quiet, looking at Thomas apprehensively. 

 

His captor sighed and looked away, “They got Daniel. Arrested him.”

 

John gasped and his eyes widened in hope. Surely that nervous mess of a man would break under police influence. 

 

Thomas scoffed at him, “Don’t get your hopes up, boy. Why do you think I brought you here?

 

John’s forehead creased, “Wha-?” But he as interrupted by two large hands coming at him and pushing him under the water. 


End file.
